


By Any Other Name

by Deathofme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mild Gore, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathofme/pseuds/Deathofme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SSHG AU. Rated M for sexuality and some graphic imagery.</p><p>A retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Snape, mangled and left barely human by the snake's venom happens by chance to form an ominous connection with Professor Granger through an enchanted rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SSHG exchange as a gift for Ianthe_Waiting.

BY ANY OTHER NAME  
  
_Variations of A Theme_

  
 _ **“For mercy has a human heart,**_  
 _ **Pity a human face”**_  
\- _The Divine Image_ , William Blake

  
PROLOGUE  
***

Hermione was overwhelmed by the cloying scent of roses.

She looked at the ground to see that she had unknowingly crushed one under her foot. Stooping down, she picked it up and examined it in the noonday sun. The smell was powerful, reeking from the wilted flower and clinging to her hair and clothes. She’d never come across a rose with such a powerful fragrance. She delicately put it to her nose before quickly taking it away again. The scent was strong enough to be spicy and tickle her throat.

She looked around at her surroundings, the west bank of the schoolyard closest to Hogwarts castle, and then finally heavenward. The school had no gardens close to the castle, those were closer to Hagrid’s and the Forbidden Forest, and she knew the groundskeeper wasn’t fond of flowers (dangerous cabbages and pumpkins, maybe). The only answer, then, was up. She looked towards the sky and saw nothing. No thestral or owl that might have dropped a romantic package. Nothing.

The only answer was the school then. But again, there was nothing there. Only a lone window that overlooked the tree she was standing beside during her lunch break. And Minerva had assured her it was one of those abandoned classrooms that were currently filled with retired suits of armour and knick-knacks. Perhaps the students had taken it upon themselves to turn it into a secret trysting spot. She’d be sure to let the house ghosts know to chase their students away from there.

Hermione looked at her rose, its origins still a mystery, and tucked it into her sleeve. The smell of its petals would come to stay on her fingers for many years.

 

PART 1  
***

Hermione was dreaming.

The room was dark. She turned to her right and then to her left, but still couldn’t make out exactly what she was seeing. Wood paneling? Dust. Lots of dust. And it was night.

She heard a horrible gurgling and tried to make her way to the sound. It was like wading underwater, all movement and time seemed to slow down.

“Oh Merlin… ”

Hermione turned a corner.

“Oh Merlin… ”

Hermione had turned a corner.

There was a dark form on the floor. It was black and indistinct. There was a figure hunched over it, dark liquid dripping down from its face.

“Oh Merlin… “

Hermione had turned a corner.

The figure lifted its white face. Its mouth was open like a horrid, jagged scar. There was dark red liquid dripping from its mouth and it made a horrible gurgling noise and lurched towards her.

 _That face._

Hermione took a step back.

“Professor?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

“Professor? Are you all right?”

Hermione looked down to see little Al Potter staring back up at her. He blinked owlishly at her through his thick lenses.

“It’s just… you’ve been in here an awful long time now… ”

Hermione looked around and accidentally bumped her head against a wooden shelf. She was inside the cramped little storage room of her Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. She had the first years this afternoon and had gone to look for dried samples of ashwinders and doxies.

“Goodness. I’m sorry, Al, go sit down. I’ll be out there shortly.”

Al blinked once more at her before walking back to his seat. Hermione could see through the gap in the door that most of her class had come in and sat down at their desks. She must have dozed off for a good ten minutes. Rubbing balefully at her eyes she plucked a few jars off her shelves and smoothed the front of her robes. She glanced nervously at the rose she had tied to her equipment rack. She had put the rose in her storage room in the hopes of spreading its perfume through the dust-choked closet. Looking at it now she was thinking that she had better remove it.

***

  
“Maybe you need a sick week. Take a break from everything,” Ron said as he pushed a mug of tea towards her. “Biscuit?”

“No. No, thank you. I don’t feel like I’m sickening for some time off. And it’s only the beginning of the year.”

Ron smirked as he finally sat down beside her, having cleared the kitchen top to the standard his mother had taught him. He bit into one of the biscuits he had made; he had become quite the self-sufficient bachelor, and mused on Hermione’s predicament.

“But you never think you need a rest. You run yourself ragged. Minerva should have sent you packing your bags for a nice break in your parent’s summer home in France.”

Hermione snorted somewhat bitterly. “Minerva doesn’t notice anything anymore. She’s… she’s gotten very old.”

Ron grew quiet when he saw the uneasy expression on her face. It was hard to come to terms with their indomitable former professor’s fast approaching shortcomings. It was too easy to think that she would always hold as firm as she had when they were students.

“Then throw it away.”

“What?”

Ron shrugged his shoulders, his half-eaten biscuit waved nonchalantly through the air. “Throw the rose away. It’s giving you bad dreams. Bin it.”

Hermione laughed. “It’s just a dead flower, it can’t do anything.”

“True, but then there would also be no harm in tossing it in the rubbish. Who knows? It might work.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Ron grinned and leaned over to give her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I’m always right. Unless it comes to the contents of _Hogwarts: A History_.”

Hermione smiled wryly and quickly drained the rest of her tea. “I have to dash now. I’m on corridor patrol tonight.”

“Alrighty. By the way, who gets first turn with the kids this Christmas?”

“They were at my parents for the first couple weeks last year, so I think Molly will want to see them first this time around,” Hermione said as she tied a thin scarf around her neck. Ron nodded, thinking, as he took her empty cup and placed it in the sink.

“But Harry’s bringing his brood over the last couple weeks of holidays. Wouldn’t it be better if we get Hugo and Rose to come over to the Burrow during then? They’d have their mates to play with.”

“You’re right, that sounds a better plan. Send me an owl; we have plenty of time to work it out.”

“Yes, Professor,” Ron said with a smirk on his face. Hermione gave him her best impression of a stern librarian before drawing her wand out from her robes’ sleeve.

“Doing something special with Davina tonight?”

Ron grinned. “Dinner and dancing.”

Hermione chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Ever the romantic one. I don’t know where you find the energy.”

“It’s a lesson you’ll have to pick up from me, prof. No exciting dates on your horizon?”

“Too old. Too tired. Too busy.”

“And too full of excuses.”

Hermione let out an affected sigh, crossing her arms against her chest. Ron merely grinned and waved goodbye as she Apparated out of his flat and to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds.

***

  
Hermione strolled down the corridor that went from Gryffindor tower to the Great Hall. It had finally hit the peaceful hours of the night, when most of the students had retired to bed and Peeves felt no one was around for it to warrant any effort on his part to cause mischief. She liked this part of patrol night best, when she could walk through the empty hallways with moonlight streaming in through the high windows of the castle. She had developed a clever little charm that was an adaptation of _Muffliato_ , where she could hear any book of her choice recited in one of her ears. She had thought of the idea when her mother had gotten her audiobook CD’s for her birthday.

She was currently listening to the biography of Morgana Le Fay. It read more like a horrid medieval romance than anything, and she chuckled inwardly to herself. Ron and Harry would tease her mercilessly if they knew her choice of light reading was yet another supposed educational tome.

Hermione turned a corner and was overwhelmed by the scent of roses.

“ _Oh Merlin_ … ”

She suddenly felt as if she had slammed into a solid wall. Her ears began ringing and she felt as if her heart had done a somersault. Legs shaky, she groped about her in the dim light to fall against a pillar for support and waited for her sudden wave of vertigo to disperse.

“… _oh Merlin, you will pay for these transgressions against me_ … ”

Realizing her audio charm was still playing, Hermione irritably tapped her wand to her ear and silenced the spoken text. She had regained her composure and her dizzy spell had almost completely faded away. She looked at her surroundings in confusion. What had just happened?

There it was, the smell of roses. Hermione looked curiously at the few wooden doors dotting the stretch of hallway. They didn’t lead to any classrooms, not to her knowledge. They were just closets and abandoned rooms Filch used for storage. So where was the smell coming from?

Hermione looked down at her hands and then gingerly pressed her fingertips to her nose. Her skin wept the strange, spicy scent as if she had doused then in bowls of perfume oil. Perturbed, she found she couldn’t tear her hands away, her nose still searching along their familiar contours for the foreign scent.

***

  
After that one bizarre counter in the hallway, to her utmost surprise, the rose had been quiet. She thought of it as “quiet” for lack of a better word. It hung benignly in her wardrobe without ever giving her anymore strange dreams, and its scent had even dwindled to just a lingering hint of spice on her robes and in her hair. She hadn’t the heart to throw it away.

Her fingertips brushed against the dry petals as she reached for a scarf. It released some of its musky bouquet into the air and she inhaled appreciatively before striding out of her chambers. She had a meeting with Minerva about what Hogwarts was going to do for the Christmas holidays. They had a larger number of students staying at the castle this year, which meant the need for more staff. Normally she wouldn’t have minded, but this year she had hoped for a week off to spend with Rose and Hugo at her parents’.

And, of course, Minerva had forgotten that Hermione had been reminding her of this planned holiday since the beginning of September, and had booked her to be on duty for the entire break. Well… she’d just have to see about that, wouldn’t she?

Hermione knocked on the door to the Headmistress’s office. There was a muffled argument occurring on the other side of the door, and Hermione stood there puzzled. Minerva almost never got worked up about anything these days.

“ _Come in_.”

Hermione opened the door cautiously. That was an incredibly terse tone of voice from her Headmistress. She poked her head in to see Minerva scribbling away at her desk, patches of colour still warming her cheeks. A quick glance around saw an equally sour expression on the face of Dumbledore’s portrait. Ahh… so they had just been in a tiff of sorts. Odd.

“Hermione, do sit down. Now, what was it you wanted to discuss with me?”

“The Winter holidays. Minerva, I had requested the Christmas week off a month ago. I was hoping you could accommodate me, I _did_ discuss it with you previ—”

Hermione paused. Minerva was staring at her with an unfathomable expression on her face.

“Minerva?”

Minerva continued to stare, and for the first time Hermione felt uncomfortable and slightly afraid in the presence of her former mentor and beloved colleague.

“Is everything all right, Minerva?”

“What kind of perfume are you wearing?”

Hermione blinked, nonplussed. “Excuse me?”

“You have a smell of perfume on you. What is it?”

Hermione self-consciously looked down at her robes, gingerly sniffing her fingers. Was the smell really that strong?

“It’s just rosewater.”

“It’s… ” Minerva suddenly trailed off and then went redder in the face. She had just realized how strangely she had been coming off and coughed embarrassedly.

“It’s lovely.”

“Would you like me to come back another time? I have to do a quick patrol of Gryffindor tower anyway.”

“No. Yes. I’m so sorry, Hermione, please excuse me.” Minerva got up from behind her desk to retreat to one of the more private chambers within her spacious office. Hermione glanced at her concernedly, but then got up and left. Whatever that had been all about, this was not the time to press the matter.

Although, she fancied Albus’ portrait had craned closer to the edge of his frame as she walked by, as if to try and smell the roses on her.

***

  
Hermione was dreaming.

She was in a dark hallway with moonlight streaming in from the high windows. There were candlesticks smoking slightly at her side, they had just been blown out.

She was wearing a gown of crushed red velvet.

“Closer… ”

Hermione turned her head to see a figure at the end of the hallway. It was sprawled on the ground, only its back propped up against the wall. It was bleeding.

It was bleeding rose petals.

“Come closer… ”

Unwilling, Hermione found herself drifting down the hallway. She could see moonlight, she could smell the spicy roses, she could hear the faint whistle of the figure’s breathing.

 _Oh Merlin._

That face.

“Please… closer… ”

 _I can’t._

The crushed velvet of her gown caressed her skin and sent an unexpected chill rattling through her spine. She felt the electric tingles shoot across the expanse of her chest and back and her nipples grew taut under the material.

“Come… ”

 _Oh Merlin._

She was in a dark hallway.

That face.

 _That_ face.

She was moving even closer to it. The moonlight was only just illuminating a part of it. She was going to move close enough to see it fully now.

 _That face._

The smell of roses became overwhelming and Hermione woke up.

***

  
“Mum!”

Hermione looked down and grinned, playfully slinging an arm around Hugo’s shoulders and shaking him gently.

“You have to call me Professor here, Hugo. Or at least, Miss.”

He wrinkled his nose. “But it sounds funny.”

“Oh go on, what is it?”

“Are we going to nan’s for Christmas? Only, Al was saying how he and Lily and James were going to be at the Burrow for some of the holidays—”

Hermione sighed gustily, playfully swinging his arm to and fro. “Still working on that, but don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get to see them, I’m just not sure when yet.”

Hugo, the one out of her small brood who was unabashedly affectionate and unaffected by embarrassment (whereas Rose would go screaming in the other direction if Hermione so much as tried to speak to her in school), buried his face into the sleeve of her robes.

“Get on with you, don’t you have Herbology right now?”

Hugo inhaled deeply, his warm breath stirring the material of her robes. “Mmm, mummy, you smell good.”

Hermione lifted her sleeve and sniffed, suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of roses.

***

  
Hermione was wearing a beautiful dress made of crushed red velvet.

Wait… she’d been here before.

Hermione turned her head to see the end of the dark hallway. There was moonlight streaming in from the windows. The candles at her sides had just been blown out. The smoke rose from them in feathery plumes.

The figure at the end of the corridor was hunched into itself, refusing to look up. She moved slowly towards it. It felt as if she were underwater.

The figure turned its face, the movement looking as if the shadows themselves had shifted. It made no move to beckon to her. She came regardless.

It was bleeding roses.

It clutched its stomach and from out between its fingertips slipped rose petals. Liquid rose petals. Splattering onto the ground.

Hermione found herself kneeling and then winding herself into the figure’s lap, arms embracing it. It kept its face hidden in the shadow, looking at her accusingly through the darkness. Her hands crept around it until she was holding on more tightly.

It opened its mouth and out fell roses.

Hermione felt an unexpected chill rattle through her spine. The shiver sent electric sparks shooting across the expanse of her skin and she arched into it.

 _Oh Merlin._

She gasped, shivering against it and breathing a silent prayer. The smell of roses was overwhelming, the spice causing her head to spin.

She whispered, “I’m here,” and then woke with an embarrassed slickness between her thighs.

***

  
Minerva had been very cross with him. She had threatened to take his roses away, her bony hands reaching out to snatch away his current bouquet for the week... but something on her face softened when she heard the distressed noises he made and she relented. She took away some of his pictures instead, leaving the walls to his room bare.

He moodily stroked the brick surface, a dusty mix of brown and gray, as he recounted the tongue-lashing he had received. His blood had been simmering the whole while he bore the brunt of her accusatory abuse, but he had said nothing. It was better if she thought he was simple that week. She always left him alone when he was being simple. All he did was just sit and stare at a spot on the wall, anyway. She got bored of that very easily. A couple minutes of her staring at him with all the pity in the world and then she would leave.

It took her longer to go this time, but then, she was very angry.

“You’ve broken your promise to me!”

He stared stonily at one of his pictures. A wood-carved print of the Palazzo Vecchio and Duomo in Florence.

“You’ve gone out of your room!”

He looked to her then. A blank, but sceptical glare as if to ask her how on earth he could manage a feat like that? The red patches on her cheeks darkened, but she couldn’t find a rebuttal.

“I don’t know _how_ , but suffice to say you know full well what you’ve done. I won’t tolerate it.”

She huffily got up and snatched the print he was staring at off the wall. He trained his eyes to the floor instead. _Leave. Leave. Leave._

She sat down beside him, gently patting his shoulder. He kept staring at the floor. Her trying to be understanding was much more bearable than her displeasure, but it was still something he merely tolerated.

“You know this is only for your safety. If you’re bored or if you’re wanting for something, just tell me. We’ll get it for you.”

She stared fondly at him for a quiet minute before playfully shaking his shoulder.

“Would you like Albus to visit you this afternoon?”

He shook his head slightly.

“All right then, suit yourself. I’ll check up on you again tomorrow. And remember... ”

The stern tone crept into her voice again and she shook the pictures she had torn from his wall at him. “... I catch you up to any more mischief and I _will_ confiscate your roses.”

She left his room, swinging the door shut behind her. The force required to shut its substantial weight stirred the air in the room and tickled a loose strand of hair across his face. She wouldn’t be back in the morning. Every time she told him that she always forgot. She didn’t use to forget. Before, right around the beginning, she had always remembered her promises. He always had fresh roses then.

He looked to the flowers on his table, half-wilted. Well, they’d be good until the end of the week. He could wait until then.

Restless, and now without a chaperone, he quickly made his way to the window and peered outside. The glass was charmed so that he could look out but no one could look within. He could see the beautiful grounds of Hogwarts, so delicately dusted with snow that it must have come from a master painter’s hand.

So... what he had felt then was real. Someone had found his rose. It had fallen... fallen... sinking through the air until it met the ground with a soft impact and had lain there, outstretched and reaching towards the sun.

Someone had found it.

Someone had found him. The small magical tickle he felt had been the presence of another. The small invisible thread he felt in his mind that he had been teasing closer to him actually led to another person. It had not been in vain.

 _Closer. Come closer._

 _I’m here._

Severus shuddered uncontrollably, face pressed against the cold, frosted glass. He was thinking of how he finally had someone within his grip, and that he would not be able to let go.

***

  
Severus squawked in protest when he felt the sharp sting of strands of his hair being yanked from his scalp.

“Sorry, Severus. Try to hold still.”

Minerva fussed momentarily over the abused part of his scalp before moving onto brushing the hair on the nape of his neck. He huffed unhappily at her carelessness, but contentedly closed his eyes when the stinging abated. She had found the perfect mix between gentle yet firm brushstrokes, and Severus let his head fall forward. The bristles scraped lightly, and he revelled in the slight pull of his scalp as the brush worked its way through the locks of his hair. She did this for him every time before treatment so he would relax and cooperate. He had learned to take his small pleasures where he could.

When Minerva set the brush down he deflated slightly.

“Come now, Severus. Don’t look so glum,” Minerva intoned airily, tossing the brush to one side. From the corner of his eye he could see the fresh batch of roses he was to be given that week. He thought it was quite clever of her, one of the few remaining things she did that were clever these days. By bringing the roses into the room with her, she gave him the incentive to get his treatment over with as quickly as possible for the promise of his beloved flowers.

The acrid smell of the ointment hit his nostrils and he recoiled in disgust. Minerva set the flask’s stopper down and reached for his face. He tried to remain still as the ointment was smeared onto his skin, but it burned and he couldn’t help but wince.

Minerva had been doing this for so long that she barely grimaced whenever she saw his face now. With a firm hand under his chin she angled his face upwards so that she could see it more easily. So much of Nagini’s venom had been exposed to his face and neck that the wounds he had suffered would never fully close or heal. On the left side of his face there were open channels of bared, blackened flesh that traveled along the curve of his eyebrow, cheek, and split into tributaries that formed a spider’s web across his jaw and converged back to a raw chasm on his neck. Around the marring scars his flesh almost seemed to have twisted and formed away from any natural grace or order.

He looked up at Minerva balefully as she disinfected the sore, open flesh. His right eye blinked, while its brother could only twitch. He had learned to forget about pain after the first year. It was now a rare occurrence for him to even feel a white-hot twinge from his neck or cheek. It only hurt when Minerva had to clean it. But he complied because it hurt more when she forgot to clean it. It became infected and began to weep then.

Severus saw something dark cross Minerva’s face and it caught his interest. He glanced down and noticed she had come to his neck. As she rubbed in the ointment she was looking at it with a curious mixture of resentment, pity, disgust and nostalgia. He thought he understood. Within the flap of his gnarled skin one could see only blackened, curling, mangled flesh. Nagini had completely ruined his vocal chords and he could not speak. It was a miracle that he was even alive, and had remained alive and relatively healthy for so many years. He looked away from Minerva, suddenly overwhelmed with ill will.

“There, I’m done.”

Usually Minerva would spend the rest of the evening with him, either reading a book by his table or complaining to him about some other stupid thing Albus had said to her. However, she saw the stony look on his face and realized the black mood he had suddenly fallen into. His sudden mood swings were something she had quickly accepted and learned to avoid. She gathered her things together, left him the hairbrush as a gesture of good will, and quietly left him alone.

 _Damn him._ Severus knocked the hairbrush off the table and sent it clattering to the floor. Damn his complacent nature. He never used to be like this. But the poison… that cursed snake’s poison… it had done something to him. It had made him weak, vulnerable and susceptible to manipulation.

He hadn’t understood at first, but in the beginning he had also forgotten what he used to be like. What used to belong to him: his mind, his cunning, and his anger. Poppy had been alive then, and she was the one who had finalized the procedure his treatments were supposed to take. She was also the one who had run the tests on him to try and determine his condition. He remembered the concerned whispered dialogue that passed between her and Minerva, at the time not fully understanding the implications of their unsettled, sad glances. Nagini’s venom, the magical venom had not only infected him through entry points in his neck but also on his face and temple. It had killed certain nerves… leaving him fewer circuits to function on. Sensory. Pleasure.

Unconsciously his fingers had already snaked to the side of the table the fresh roses were on. They curled around the velvet hips, thumb smoothing over the petals and his fingers flexing slowly amidst the tangled vines. When he realized he had already fallen slave to their texture his fingers curled around the bud and crushed it into his palm.

Nothing else made him happy anymore. Nothing else caught his interest. In the darker times at the beginning when he had first been brought to this room, Minerva had wanted to resurrect him. Fully. Severus Snape, in all of his former glory. She had brought him his old books, his wand, the equipment from his dungeon laboratories… and he had looked at them and rubbed his face against the worn paper and tapped the silver scales against his teeth, entranced with them in a different way. She had hated him then, back when her own mind was still sharp and she longed for her former colleague and friend to return. She accused him of doing it all on purpose, of putting on another façade and another show in order to save himself from the cruelties of the world.

Ironic, then, that she should be the one to keep him under lock and key.

Severus groaned and stretched himself over the table, pressing his face against his pillow of roses. Their sweet, spicy scent invaded his nose and made his head swim. They felt luxurious against him, soft and ticklish, but sweet and yielding. Pressed together the petals went from dry to damp, sticking to each other and releasing a stronger scent, moving from ephemeral to overwhelming. Severus closed his eyes slowly, his eyelashes leaving small kisses against the buds and he rubbed his face against them, sinking slowly until they merely formed a small layer between his skin and the wooden surface of the table. He could muster no more effort for recollection or bitterness. He just never could these days. Nothing else really existed apart from what he felt and what he could touch.

Well… until recently. Severus’ eyes snapped open and his hand convulsed against the table.

 _Come closer._

Who had found his rose? Who had found the one token that was the proof of his existence? _What did they feel like?_

And what could this mean for him, that after living for almost twenty years as a secret he was about to be discovered?

 _I am here._

Severus pushed a small bud into his mouth and bit down, shuddering uncontrollably against the red-smeared table.

***

  
Hermione stood on the platform for the Hogwarts Express and suppressed a shiver that began from the nape of her neck right down to her tailbone. She massaged the base of her skull, curious as to where the shiver had come from. It wasn’t the sort she usually got when she was chilly… it almost felt as if someone was watching her.

“Mum! It’s here!”

Hermione snapped back to the present and ran after Hugo, catching him by the scruff of his cloak so he didn’t barrel headlong into the train tracks in the hopes of reaching the train’s doors first.

“What did I say about being patient, Hugo?”

“Oh, you should have seen him at the Quidditch match, mum.”

It was Hugo’s first year and his first time taking the train back to wizarding London. Hermione had secured her holiday and had taken the opportunity to take the train with her children. She could easily have Apparated them back to their small house, but they were all in the festive mood and she liked the romantic notion of watching the scenery change before her eyes with her children snuggled beside her. Despite being in the same school, they didn’t have the opportunity to do many things together after all.

“What about this compartment?”

Rose pulled a face. “But that’s where the Slytherin’s normally sit.”

“And? The Slytherin students aren’t infected, Rose. Honestly, I can’t believe this house rivalry rubbish still goes on – who on earth puts these notions into your heads?”

Hermione slid open the compartment door and shooed them in. They had finally settled themselves by the time the lady with the lunch trolley clattered by. Hugo had settled himself against Hermione’s side, his head nestled on top of her stomach. Rose, who was already at the age where she fiercely wanted her independence, had relaxed somewhat away from the scrutiny of her peers and allowed Hermione to play with her hair.

It was feeling warm and peaceful, with mountains and trees rolling by on the window, that Hermione fell asleep.

Hermione was being held.

Her eyes snapped open and the sensation left just as suddenly. She gasped, as if taking breath for the first time. Looking around she saw she was in the corridor… moonlight streaming in through the window…

 _Come closer._

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but coughed instead. Something was tickling her throat. She pressed two fingers against her tongue and felt something damp and velvety. Teasing it out slowly, Hermione withdrew a fat rose petal from her between her lips.

 _Who?_

Hermione looked around her, the sodden petal clinging to her fingertips like a second skin. The candles had just been blown out, smoke rising lazily from their wicks. Where was he?

“I’m here,” she said, and she felt the air stir.

The crouched figure.

 _That_ face.

“Professor!”

She ran towards him, but it was as if she were moving underwater. He looked up, saw her, and grew pale. He almost seemed to fold into himself, withdrawing as far away from her as possible. Hermione stopped, confused. Was he scared of her? Before she could call out again, she felt liquid bubble up from her throat. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she saw red smears.

He continued to recoil, eyes now trained on her with a mixture of fear and fascination.

Hermione made to take another step toward him and all of a sudden felt a forceful push somewhere in between her eyes. She cried out in pain.

“Mum?”

Hermione woke with a start, almost dislodging Hugo from his comfortable perch. Rose looked at her with naked concern on her face.

“Are you all right?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, feeling the uncomfortable dampness of spittle rattling back into her mouth, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Fine… ”

***

  
Hermione was in her mother’s kitchen. Her hands suddenly went slack and the bowl she was holding tottered precariously in her fingers.

A lingering, _pulling_ , electric touch had suddenly enveloped her… smothering her. Her entire body was singing, right to her very magical core and the electrical intensity of her nerves being jangled became so much that she shuddered and the bowl finally fell to the ground, splattering its contents all over the floor.

Hermione gasped, it wasn’t over, still pulling, still caressing. It tugged on a network of strings in her body that connected all of her secret, sensitive spots, right from the soft skin behind her ear to the backs of her knees. She felt a spasm in her lower abdomen and finally collapsed, sinking to the floor, unable to do anything except wait for the sensation to abide. It left slowly in rippling waves that were both apologetic, but purposefully tempting and she lay there shuddering, occasional twitches running through her body, feeling for all the world as if her bones had melted away.

***

  
Hermione walked through the doors of Hogwarts with a slight feeling of trepidation.

She would have said that her small holiday with her parents and then briefly with the Weasley’s at the Burrow was thoroughly enjoyable, save for the one incident when she had collapsed from a sensory overload. It had troubled her and lingered in the back of her mind since the day it happened, thus preventing her from enjoying the rest of her time fully. She wasn’t sure why, but coming back to Hogwarts almost made her feel vulnerable to it again.

“I’m back,” she whispered, unsure of who was listening, and then pushed open the doors that lead to the Great Hall.

The second Hermione opened the door to Minerva’s office she sensed something was wrong. The room appeared to be completely empty, and Albus wasn’t in his portrait frame. Hermione set down the small gift she had brought for Minerva onto a chair and walked into the office.

“Hello? Minerva?”

Hermione gave a cursory glance to the Headmistress’ desk, messy as always, and then circuited the room.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank Merlin, Hermione!”

Hermione whirled around to see Albus had returned to his portrait. “What is it?”

“She’s collapsed in her chambers, I’ve been trying to tell someone.”

“Goodness!” Hermione ran towards the direction of Minerva’s private chambers, hidden away within the office itself amidst a network of small wings and corridors. Albus flitted from frame to frame, following her journey.

Hermione finally came to the door and pushed on it to find it locked. She looked to Albus’ portrait. “What’s the password?”

To her surprise, he fidgeted. He glanced nervously from the chamber door to Hermione’s inquiring face, pressed by urgency, but also battling something within him.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“It’s _rose buds_.”

Hermione felt something icy wash over her and the guilty expression on Albus’ face did nothing to alleviate the unsettled gnawing that had begun in the pit of her stomach.

“Rose buds?”

The chamber door swung open. Hermione looked straight into Albus’ eyes for a moment longer, searching, before running in and kneeling by Minerva’s side. As she checked her old friend’s pulse and was examining her for bruising, she heard Albus’ weary voice mutter behind her, “Sometimes I feel so helpless… ”

 


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2  
***

Severus had been pacing back and forth in front of his little window so much that he could now see scuffmarks and scratches on the wooden floor. The snow was falling more heavily now and if he breathed softly onto the glass it would frost over.

Hermione Granger… it had been her all along.

It was curious, he thought, that he had never even considered her or Weasley or even _Potter_ for that matter the whole lonely years he had spent in his secluded room. Their existences had never crossed his mind, had never ignited a spark of his interest or inquiry. He was sure he always knew in the back of his mind that they must be alive and growing older, but it faded into the background of the world outside. He could do nothing but assume that the magical world had continued to exist and flourish beyond his walls. Minerva did tell him that Voldemort had been defeated and that they had won the war, and the fact that Hogwarts still stood and that happy children ran around on the grounds below him were a testament to this.

But now he was curious. Why Hermione Granger, and _how_ Hermione Granger? What did she look like now? How old was she? What was she doing at Hogwarts – what did that brilliant mind do with itself all these years?

 _Why her?_

What must her hair feel like?

Her skin?

Severus unconsciously rubbed a rose petal against his unblemished cheek, examined it and then placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, slowly chewing. He had been upset by the revelation at first, disturbed. She was linked very strongly not only to Potter, but to his past. The Severus he used to be and could no longer conjure. What secrets of his history would she drudge up? What would she expect of him and what would she think of him now? Could she help him?

What would her lips feel like?

What of the soft down on the nape of her neck?

Severus had lain on his bed for days, wracked with torment and hands clutching onto the thick material of his blankets. Every paranoid thought, every misgiving, every indication that this connection was a bad idea could not hold up for very long over his instincts towards the sensual. He could only briefly ponder the precarious situation he was in before his mind gave way to imagining what she would feel like against him. What she would taste like…

Cursed snake. Cursed poison.

Finally his rational mind could distance him from his curiosity no longer and he had found the tickle of her magical presence again. He had _pulled_ … beckoned her closer to him… broadcast a signal so overwhelming that his own vision blackened and he fell unconscious, later waking to find himself ashamedly sticky.

  
And now she was back.

It had taken her a few weeks, but she was back again. Severus had been pacing in his room, restless, like a large cat circles its cage waiting to strike. She had come and he was ready to be found.

***

Hermione leaned back into her chair, exhausted, and allowed her head to rest against the wall. She was in the Infirmary at Minerva’s bedside. The Mediwizards from St. Mungo’s were coming up again in the morning to transfer her to the hospital, saying they should leave her be overnight.

Hermione had almost lost her composure, but managed to fight down the panic and overwhelming sadness to just a few escaped tears. The Mediwizards kept assuring everyone that Minerva was fine, was going to be _just fine_ , but Hermione knew it was just a comforting fiction. Yes, perhaps Minerva would be back at Hogwarts within a week, but this was the first tangible sign of her descent downwards. It would be more difficult for the old witch now and everyone would soon have to come to terms with her approaching death.

Hermione sadly cradled her old friend and former mentor’s hand in her own.

Within the dark, hushed Infirmary, Hermione began to dream.

“Oh Merlin… ”

Hermione gasped, her back arching and her eyes slipping shut.

Wait… she hadn’t been here before.

He had just placed a rose petal on his tongue, wiping it past his lip so that it was just beginning to curl from the dampness. He gingerly laid it over her nipple and she hissed, shivering from the slight, fleeting friction. His tongue met the petal again, this time coating it, lapping, until it had plastered to her breast like a second skin. The spit cooled in the air, sending little shocks through her and she sighed helplessly.

She reached for his face blindly, but he batted her hand away.

He gently pushed her down until she was lying with her back against the floor. She looked curiously around her. She could see brick, dust... and candles that had just been blown out. Gray whispers of smoke rose from their wicks.

“Oh Merlin… ”

He had placed a rose softly against her torso and was teasing a feathery line down to her navel. The tips of the velvety petals skimmed across her skin, leaving in its wake a growing trail of gooseflesh. She murmured something incoherent, shoulders rolling and head turning from side to side. The rose kissed her delicately, moving to brush along the inside of her thigh. Hermione’s hips bucked upwards and her legs stroked against each other like a languorous violin.

“Closer… ” She said.

The head of the rose perched itself on top of her damp curls, as if asking for entrance. She shuddered, hands reaching forward to bring him closer before he pushed them aside again. He stroked the rose against the already sensitive skin of her inner folds, and she twitched, willing herself to relax. He then placed the rose head in his mouth and sucked, gluing the petals together to form a closed tip. After a contemplating glance, he then pushed its sodden nub against her and _twirled_ it inwards.

“ _Professor_ ,” she cried out, head thrown back and neck exposed. He looked at her, a curious expression on his face, and then snapped the stem of the rose off from its bud.

He was pulling away.

“Wait—” Hermione grasped for him, flower petals falling out from inside her and littering the ground where she lay.

She woke with a start and with an uncomfortable dampness between her thighs. She groaned, feeling a stab of pain in her lower abdomen. Alarmed, she undid the bottom of her robes and then slipped her hand underneath her underwear. Her fingers came back slick and when she brought them up to the moonlight they glistened darkly. For a second Hermione had the insane notion that it was disintegrated rose petals until her nose caught the sharp copper tang of blood.

It was just blood. Only blood. Her time of month.

Hermione slumped back into the chair; suddenly feeling boneless again, smeared hand hanging limply by her side.

***

Hermione hadn’t slept properly for weeks.

She was beginning to become a shell of her normal bright and busy self. While the school board of governors had diplomatically told her that the control of Hogwarts was to be placed with Professor Slughorn because he was a Head of House, she knew it was actually because the hollowed look in her eyes discouraged them from the notion of giving her any more work. She looked haunted and she knew it. The board of governors had assumed she was privately grieving over Minerva’s illness and was making herself sick. It was the view most of the school staff had.

She said nothing to dissuade them from that notion.

She was plagued by random erotic chills that would dance across her skin. She never had any clue as to when they would come so she was tense and gripped with anxiety every hour of the day. If she wasn’t alert they would creep up on her unexpectedly and she didn’t want to collapse again in front of her colleagues or, heaven forbid, her students.

The dreams were the most troubling. They grew with intensity and she took to staying awake and only dozing briefly when physical exhaustion commanded it of her. She found they became fuzzy and she didn’t remember them as much when she fell asleep under those circumstances.

She was fine. She was functioning.

She was _only_ functioning.

***

Severus’ face hurt. It had begun to smell.

Minerva hadn’t come to see him in _weeks_. Where was she? His roses had all but rotted away completely and he had pushed them to the furthest corner of his room where they sat in a blackening mass.

At first, giddy and delirious with his new plaything, he had been distracted by teasing Hermione Granger closer to him. The game had progressed far and quickly and he had been caught up in the neural hot flashes of their dreamed moments. But as the second and then the third week passed with him trapped in his room alone he became afraid.

The skin around the open wounds on his face was sore to the touch, and he had to take care that nothing came into contact with it. He had taken desperate measures and cut off his hair from that side as loose strands began sticking to the clear weeping pus. The whole area of his face now burned white-hot with the occasional stabbing prickle that hurt him so much it made his toes curl.

Minerva, where was she? He needed her. He needed someone. Albus? Who could help him?

It had even begun to hurt to breathe, his neck screamed silently in agony.

Feverish, he made one last desperate grab for her magical essence. He needed to bring her to him quickly or he would die. He just wished he could do it some other way.

***

When Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and her hands clenched the side of the desk, Albus’ suspicions were confirmed. He watched as she battled with the beguiling force that wracked her body and did her best to not whimper aloud or sink to the ground.

“You found a rose, didn’t you?”

Hermione’s eyes opened in alarm, pupils still slightly dilated and glassy. She was struggling to regain her composure, but something Albus’ portrait had said was immediately sobering.

“What did you say?”

“A rose. A very particular type of rose. It’s what Minerva smelt on you a few months ago.”

Hermione looked scared, but she nodded. How did Albus know? And more importantly, what more did he know? She shuddered one last time, but finally felt the electric pull on her nerves slacken and give up. Breathing in deeply, she silently counted to ten before looking up at Albus’ portrait again.

“Why Snape?”

“Because the rose is his.”

Hermione’s brow knit in confusion and she said, “Snape’s dead,” although the look on Albus’ face already told her that the truth was otherwise.

“He needs help.”

***

Black rose petals slowly began to consume his vision and he realized he was slipping into unconsciousness.

Severus lay still on the floorboards, a tremor running his body on occasion. He was wracked with fever, a layer of sweat clinging to his skin and causing him to feel alternately hot and cold. He had no more strength left in his body and had collapsed to the floor, face shrieking in protest and sending sharp needles of fire to his groin.

 _I was here once_ , he thought to himself, _this was how I first died._

He had fallen to the corner where his dead rose petals were. They formed a pool around him as if they had bled from his open throat.

Severus was losing the battle to keep his eyes open now. They were slipping shut on a sliver of light that was growing wider and wider.

 _What?_

 _I’m here._

Severus lost the battle with the fleeting hint of a question lingering in his mind before there was only black.

***

Hermione gagged when the door opened as she was assaulted with the stench of sour flesh and infection. The room was quite dark and it took her a moment before she could distinguish anything apart from shadows. Albus’ portrait lingered nervously on a frame in the hallway, trying to peer into the room.

Hermione cautiously walked in and then almost retched again at what she saw by her feet.

“How is he?” Albus intoned anxiously from the hallway.

Hermione gasped, tears stinging to her eyes from the wretched assault on her senses. “Hideous,” she managed to choke out.

She finally steeled herself to kneel down to where he was. She could barely recognize his face; it had been ravaged not only by the passing years but of a twisted poison as well. She gently touched his shoulder and found that he was warm. The loose material of his robes was drenched in sweat. Lifting her sleeve to cover her mouth and nose, Hermione gently lifted a loose strand of hair that was sticking to his face. There were some lines on his face that she recognized… the accusing eye… the severe nose…

Underneath the stench of infection and death she picked up on the faint chorus of roses.

“ _Expecto Patronum_.”

A silvery otter burst forth from her wand tip, gambolling in the air. “St. Mungo’s, emergency at Hogwarts,” she commanded and watched as her patronus sped away into the night air.

She looked down at Snape then, trying to process what was happening and what she was seeing. It hurt to look at him, she rubbed her own face brusquely as if to make sure the same affliction hadn’t gripped her. Gently gripping his jaw she tilted his head downward so she could see more of her old professor’s face.

 _Was it you calling me all this time?_

“I’m here,” she whispered.

***

When Severus woke he felt the warm embrace of soft cotton cocooning him from all sides. He let out a tremulous sigh, allowing himself to sink further into the cushioned surface. He lay there for a moment, allowing himself the pleasure of slowly waking before opening his eyes.

He blinked slowly, the room swimming into his vision. He was in a white room. It looked like a hospital, but his was the only bed in it.

He realized then that his face was hurting less. It throbbed dully, as if to remind him of the abuse it had gone through, but it no longer burned or wept. His fingertips crept up cautiously to feel the unharmed skin around his wounds and they met the textured surface of muslin. He had been bandaged.

“He’s awake.”

Severus lifted his head slightly to see Albus’ concerned face peering back at his.

“Why hello, Severus.”

Albus’ portrait was propped onto a chair at Severus’ bedside. Severus weakly reached out, hand trembling until it had finished the short journey to the picture frame and then experimentally tapped on its surface. He wasn’t dreaming. Where was he?

As if sensing his question, Albus said, “You’re in a private wing of St. Mungo’s. We got you transferred here last night.”

Severus’ eyes unfocussed as he tried to recall what had happened the night previously. It was all a bit of a blur to him, he couldn’t remember much distinctly…

“Should I get the nurse?”

The sound of Hermione’s voice brought everything rushing back and Severus jerked in the bed, struggling with the blankets so that he could twist around and see her. The violent movement startled her and she took a step back.

“Calm yourself, Severus,” Albus said sternly, but to no avail. Severus had been gripped with a sudden, giddy excitement and he feebly tried to push himself into a sitting position.

She rushed over to the bedside and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. He calmed down immediately, eyes boring deeply into hers, unable to look away. Slightly unsettled, she nevertheless gently pushed him back until he was lying down on the bed. When her hands straightened and smoothed out the blankets, they skirted the underside of his jaw and he instinctively rubbed his face against her. She fought down a shiver of conflicting repulsion and desire. He looked at her searchingly and she found she had to look away.

She felt like he had thought she would, only warmer. The fleeting touch was already slipping from his memory and he wanted to touch her for longer, feel what her skin was like, how she tasted, and if she still smelt of his roses. He wanted to say, _you came_ , but had to content himself with his silence.

She had retreated to the other chair beside Albus’, unconsciously rubbing her hands together and lost somewhere in thought. Severus could see the small peak of a nipple through her shirt and knew then that he still had some electric control over her nerves. Was that what was bothering her? What was she thinking?

She murmured something to Albus’ portrait about the school and left the room. Severus watched her go balefully, but settled back down onto the bed in peace. She had come. She had found him and taken him away from his room. She had helped him when Minerva would not.

Surely, she would have to come again.

***

“I know you must feel as if you were deceived… ”

Albus trailed off when he saw the venomous look she gave him. Hermione sat tensely in her chair, ignoring the cup of tea one of the house elves had brought. They were sitting back in the Headmistress’ office. Hermione had finally agreed to take up Deputy Head duties while Minerva was ill. It looked as if she would have to hold the position for a while yet.

“… but surely you know that it was neither of our intentions. We had no idea of what he managed.”

“I don’t blame either of you for anything,” Hermione said stonily. Albus arched an eyebrow as if to question whether she truly meant that or not. Hermione, seeing this, sighed and slumped further back into her chair.

“No, I really don’t. But I suppose I do feel slightly betrayed. It’ll pass, though. You’ve no need to worry.”

“He’s sickening to see you.”

Hermione looked away from Albus then, shaking her head softly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t forgive him? You know he didn’t really know what he was doing, and in the end he knows no other way… ”

“I know, and I’ve forgiven him everything a long time ago.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, her face burning in shame. “I just can’t bear to see him.”

***

Severus had been the very picture of cooperation, and the nurses and his assigned Mediwitch were always in a good mood when they had to care for him. Although he was perfectly docile and obedient when they treated or tested him, he was constantly buzzing with an overwhelming excitement. Every time the door to his room opened, his head would snap up and he looked on expectantly.

He was waiting for Hermione.

Care packages had been sent from the school to his private room, and in the beginning of his stay the nurses seemed to bring one every other day. Soon he had all of his pictures back up on the white walls. He almost had everything now with which to occupy himself. They had even given him a room with a large window that overlooked the private grounds of the hospital.

Then the roses came, but they were delivered by the same cheery nurse who changed his bed sheets and cleaned his face. When Severus placed the customary petal into his mouth to suck and chew upon, it was with a curious mixture of disappointment and surprise. He had been so sure that Hermione would have made sure to deliver the roses personally. He had been expecting to see her with them and had waited patiently for their arrival.

Severus looked out of his high, lonely window and it was only then that he remembered and contemplated the look of repulsion that had passed her face.

Before long, though, he found himself rubbing his beloved petals against his face and lost himself to the world of texture and feeling once more. Surely, some emergency must have kept her at the school. Surely, she had sent these ahead of her as a promissory note of her return. Surely, she would come for him.

The roses continued to come unaccompanied, but Severus could only find himself feeling happy for having them there. He might have again been confined to an existence within one room, but he held the burning knowledge that his life was not a secret. That he had someone who knew him and would send for him. The roses could only be a dutiful reminder of such a promise.

It was when winter melted into spring and Severus watched the world reawaken from his window, that he realized she was not coming.

His head fell against the cold glass and he shut his eyes.

***

Hermione was suddenly overwhelmed by an oppressive, black depression. It seeped into her skull like cold, dark water and trickled down to her very stomach, gnawing and consuming. It was a tidal force that quickly enveloped her and she felt unwanted tears stream from her eyes and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

“Professor?”

Hermione could only release a guttural groan in reply, head falling forward and grinding into the wooden grain of her desk. Her hands had contorted into claws and she felt as if something was screaming inside of her.

“The professor’s unwell! Get Head Matron!”

“No… ” Hermione managed to gasp. “My office… Help me to my office… ”

Her classroom descended into chaos, and finally one of the students had the presence of mind to go grab another professor. Professor Sinistra quickly summoned Hagrid and then barked at the panicked third years to maintain order. Hagrid gingerly picked up Hermione and carried her to the Infirmary, despite her protests that she wanted to go to her office.

It was from Snape. Hermione could tell right away that the sinking blackness had come from him, but the curious thing was she also sensed it hadn’t been intentional. The sensual dreams and chills she used to receive had vanished completely once he was in St. Mungo’s, and he had been easier to ignore then. In the beginning she now and again felt an excited tickle at the back of her head, but those grew rarer as time passed.

This drowning sense of desperation and utter dread was coming from a deeper place. It was something he wasn’t controlling and had overflowed to her.

Hermione allowed herself to be placed into a bed and curled up on her side, burying her face into the pillow. The bitter tears that the pillow drank in were hot with a miserable guilt.

***

Severus had grown listless and catatonic.

He had become a faded shell of his normally alert and rapt self. The nurses had begun to worry so much that they had brought the Mediwitch in to examine and test him. When they determined he was not sick, they grew concerned. They wrote letters to the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts listing his condition and sudden change in mood. She never replied.

He no longer looked at his pictures. The normal hunger he had for sensory things had all but abated. They brought him fresh roses, but the flowers would dry and rot away untouched and uneaten. He did nothing but sit in his chair and stare in the general direction of his window.

His depression was so great that he refused to eat and grew thinner. His bones, already prominent, now cut sharply from out of his face and limbs. They had to feed him nutritive portions to try and keep him at a healthy weight, but despite their attempts he was still wasting away.

“What’s gotten a hold of you, Severus? What’s suddenly made you decide you don’t want to live?”

His regular cheery nurse looked at him with a touching concern and affection on her face. Severus acknowledged her by turning his mournful gaze towards her, but he made no other indication that he heard her.

What could he tell her anyway?

Severus closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the blackness. The only thing he could do was to try and reach the perfect state where he could feel, touch and sense nothing.

***

Hermione had been a slave to the all-consuming, black depression and had barely eaten or done anything the whole week. Crippled by such utter dejection, she had been unable to do anything but sleep and try to forget she was alive.

She had been toying with a thought the whole week, cursing herself for considering it, but slowly reaching the point where its fruition was inevitable. She was now at the point where she was living out all the burning shame and guilt she felt so that she could complete what she must to survive.

Slowly propping herself up on her bed, she crawled out from under the sheets and fell gracelessly to her floor. Wincing in pain, she rubbed her stinging elbows and continued to crawl until she made it to her closet.

She looked up at the hanging robes and reached upward. The tail end of a length of black ribbon waved happily back at her. Curling her fingers around it, she gave it a tug and a dried rose tumbled down to land in her lap.

It bounced against her, spraying dry petals and releasing a sweet, spicy perfume that had plagued her fingers since she first touched it.

Hermione groped blindly beside her until her fingers curled around the wooden shaft of her wand. She didn’t know why, but her vision was already flooded with tears. If she had allowed herself that moment to think, she would have heard her mind whisper, _I’m sorry._

“ _Incendio_.”

***

Severus felt something snap within him. A momentary rip and then the feeling was gone.

He opened his eyes, leaving one blackness to enter another. The horrible feeling of emptiness pervaded him and he exhaled slowly, his lungs deflating and unwilling to breathe until they absolutely had to.

Her magical presence was gone.

She wasn’t coming.

His hands pushed experimentally against the armrests of his chair. He didn’t weigh much, but he hadn’t moved in so long that he stumbled. Catching himself, he went slowly, rising out of his chair and then walking towards his window.

His fingers brushed against the glass, leaving a smeared proof that he had once lived. It was spring. The small flower garden on St. Mungo’s grounds had bloomed. There was even a rose bush. It wasn’t in full bloom yet. Roses take time.

Severus undid the latch on his window and pushed it open. The sudden gust of air sent chills down his spine, caressing his tortured face and stirring his hair. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and sucked in. He could taste sweet, cold air and it felt as if he could be carried away by the wind.

Opening his eyes only so much that he could see sunlight through the curtain of his lashes, he allowed himself to tilt forward, forward, until he had plunged right into the spring sky and the ground hurtled forward to meet him.

***

Hermione had never run as fast as she did through St. Mungo’s hospital to the patients’ recreational grounds on the other end. The letter that had arrived via owl post was clutched in her hand, the ink still wet and smudged by her fingertips.

When she saw the small sea of white and green uniforms she found herself slowing down, her heart racing in her ears, as if she were moving under water. Time itself seemed to slow down and it took her an eternity to finally round the corner to see him.

He lay broken amongst the rose bushes, like a crumpled bird.

She fell to his side, kneeling on the dirt ground amidst the spray of leaves, twigs and petals. When he looked up at her she wanted to avert her eyes in shame, but looked steadily on because it was what she owed him.

He did not smile, but something around his eyes softened. He lifted his head feebly and she cradled it into her lap. She cradled his jaw and made sure his eyes were trained on hers and he couldn’t look down to see the punctured, jagged mess his ribs were. When he breathed she could hear a faint whistle.

Her fingertips tenderly stroked his face and his hair. He looked at her as if knowing the gesture meant nothing. His eyes were a little sad, but overwhelmingly resigned. She wished she could say something to make her presence less hollow, but could think of nothing. There was something blocking her throat, preventing her from speaking. It tickled slightly and made more burning tears spring from her eyes.

His hand reached up and pulled at the front of her robes. She bent her head down to come closer to his. What was it? What did he want?

“I’m here… ”

His fingers reached for her bottom lip and then pressed a rose bud against them. It was young and unready, petals curled tightly into a small fist, plucked before it could have the chance to bloom and mature. He deposited it on her tongue before allowing his hand to slip back to the ground. She took it in, chewing slowly.

His eyes held something in them then that looked more like her redemption. He allowed his head to sink further into her lap and his eyes fluttered closed. He suddenly shuddered against her, dark blood bubbling up from his throat and seeping out of his mouth.

It stained against the material of her robes like dark, red blossoms.

She took his limp hand in her own and pressed it against her face. Through their intertwined fingers she was overwhelmed with the coppery perfume of blood and the spicy musk of roses.

  
EPILOGUE  
***

Hermione ran damp fingers through the bushy mane of her silver hair, attempting to smooth down a stray lock. She wiped along the crease of crow’s feet along her eye and then shook the excess water from her hands. Reaching for a towel, she briskly dried herself.

Walking back to her room she had the ticklish sense that something was different. Unable to pinpoint what exactly was bothering her, she paused and stood still. What was it?

Raising a finger to her nose she sniffed gingerly and smelt nothing. At first she didn’t quite register the absence, but once it sunk in her eyes widened. She sniffed again, this time greedily drinking in the air around her entire hand.

The smell of roses was gone.

Stunned, Hermione sat down heavily in her bedside chair and then brought her hands up to eye level. She brought them close to her nose again, still unwilling to believe. The lingering, ephemeral ghost of sweet spice had disappeared completely from her hands. The haunting perfume that had clung to her for so long had finally dissipated.

Hermione felt a sudden overwhelming sense of relief that was tinged by a faint note of guilt. The constant reminder of her painful shortcomings had disappeared and she wouldn’t have to be plagued with the thought of it again.

But, sitting alone, Hermione looked at her freed hands and realized that she would miss the roses in their absence.

***  
END


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